Shadow In His Mind
by Spitfireness
Summary: Blaise Zabini survived the war, and so did Hermione Granger -in a sense.


Disclaimer: JKR is the root of all.

**THE SHADOW IN HIS MIND**

**2015  
**  
Blaise Zabini was always known for being a reserved man, but it was nothing compared to his reputation after the war.  
  
More often than not, history has shown that in war, Violence is not the singular agent of death but is closely attended but his handmaiden, Disease. The aftermath of Voldemort's second coming was no different. Armed conflict had been isolated and its victims tended to unconsiousness towards the end of the war rather than death due to lack of energy on both sides; it was hard to live, much less muster the will to feel and kill. There were, of course, accidents and suicides but the real numbers came after Harry Potter vanquished Riddle into the ether.  
  
It took a long time for peope to come out of their houses, or even return to the cities. Though the victors sent up bright flares of song and light to celebrate, the people did not believe for they had seen too much to risk their security on a flashy magic trick. Wizards and witches had clustered in the small, safe places and hidden their children away as best they could while praying for the end of war. It did not help them. Though brick and ward kept the war away, no fortification of man can hold back sickness so clustered in the small places, the handmaiden Disease passed her kiss too swiftly to cry for help. The victors found unplottable refuges and hidden children by the smell of flesh gone sour and chill.  
  
Few survived, and even less would call it living.  
  
Years passed and the world slowly returned to itself. Desolations were healed and so was man. The people came out of their houses, returned to the cities, and eventually England's population returned to its pre-Voldemort number as babies were born and named after heroes. One of the heroes was Blaise Zabini.  
  
Boys and girls who shared his naming often stopped him on the street to proudly tell him so, and without fail, he took a moment to grace them with a smile. Blaise had retained his handsome dignity, refined by small wrinkles and scars and a long streak of grey hair that framed the left side of his face. When he smiled, people forgot how strange he was.  
  
He hardly spoke, not even through gesture. At times, he nodded his head but that put people off even more. After the war, many women were eager to have him but a hand on his knee, a hand on his thigh, even a hand a little higher did not affect him. Their coy flirtations came to nothing as Blaise hardly responded. He would walk away as they winked and blushed but not in rejection but rather ignorance. He paid no heed to the England the Survived for the only world he needed, was inside himself.

* * *

**1999  
**  
"Crucio!"  
  
Her slight body shuddered and fell to the dirt, still at last. They had drawn her through the wheat fields on her back. The rags of her cloak and clothes allowed the moon to shine on slivers of pale flesh, even in the dirt.  
  
Blaise focused on that. The familiar tangle of wild hair was caked with mud and hid her face, but the glow of her body didn't take away the edge. He couldn't forget who she was; he knew her body, had never touched it but had watched it for so long...  
  
It hurt him. She sobbed loudly though he knew her lungs must hurt from Lestranges' repeated kicks and it hurt him. Lestranges' boots were Italian, heavy with a fashionable pointed toe. Blaise could see the cobbler's mark clearly when Lestrange lifted his leg high again to come down upon her back.  
  
Blaise braced himself but still staggered when a flare went up in another part of the field.  
  
"Trouble," he told Lestrange needlessly. "The sport here is almost done, go on."  
  
Lestrange nodded as if Blaise was doing him a favor and left with a jaunty step, noisily crushing stalks of grain as he went towards fresh prey.  
  
She was still on the ground, sobbing.  
  
He went to her.  
  
"Don't help me up," she ground out when he almost touched her shoulder.  
  
"You don't understand, I want to help." he whispered, "Trust me, I give my word as scion and heir of the Zabini family."  
  
He readied his wand to perform his best healing spells but she grabbed it. Unbalanced, he fell beside her.  
  
She crawled towards him, her breathing jagged and warm against his ear. "I know who you are Blaise. But you can't help me."  
  
She returned his wand, and he felt his fingers slick with blood as she tightened his fist around it. "But the Order-"  
  
"Shut up, Blaise. You can't say that here. Blaise, please."  
  
His name on her lips. It hurt, too, when he'd waited so long. "Hermione-"  
  
"Shut up," she repeated, more harshly. "They haven't discovered my name yet, and they won't. Do you understand me?"  
  
She lifted her face and their eyes met for the first time. That hurt, too.  
  
He knew what she meant immediately and shook his head.  
  
"You have to, Blaise."  
  
"I know this area, Malfoy Manor's not far off. There's a safe house in the village. I can take you. Harry needs you and the war needs you and-"  
  
"I can't put you at risk."  
  
He could have laughed at her words. But somehow the sound stuck in his throat.  
  
"I'm no one."  
  
"You are our best source right now, and we need you in the field."  
  
"What good is my information without you there to use it!"  
  
"Be quiet," she laid her head back down in exhaustion. He moved his own closer to hear her whispers.  
  
"It all comes down to priorities. You are needed more than I."  
  
"But with Weasley down, you're our top strategist," he stopped before he revealed more than he wanted. "We need your mind to win the war."  
  
She smiled at him then, the way she had smiled in school whenever a professor called upon her for the right answer. She smiled and touched his face and said, "Gemynd."  
  
Her hand fell. Her breath stopped. There was a whisper in his head.

**

* * *

**

**2015**  
  
Had his family survived the war, Blaise might have been institutionalized. As it was, only Harry and Ron's intervention kept him out of the asylum. They had come to him one night, ten years ago, and asked to speak to Hermione.  
  
He tried to explain it didn't work that way. She'd only passed her mind into him. He could tell them what her favorite food was or what moves she woud have made in a chess game, but it was her mind and not her soul and thus it did not change beyond the absorption of new knowledge. The Hermione in his head was nineteen and incomplete.  
  
'But we see your lips moving, some days,' Ron protested.  
  
Blaise had shut his eyes, 'Its not the same. The spell only...its a shadow. And I will not share it'  
  
'You greedy-"  
  
Harry took Ron away and they did not speak again.  
  
Until today.  
  
Her two friends stood together, framed by the green flames of his hearth like the strong heroes in a memorial. Their faces were wet and Harry's voice was hoarse over the Floo.  
  
"They've found her body. And she's alive."


End file.
